


The Crest of Blood

by sahrmael



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Family, Gen, Tragedy, and i love to exploit that, there are so many issues between the pair of them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27321499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahrmael/pseuds/sahrmael
Summary: As Noctis delivers the killing blow, he takes pause to consider a part of Ardyn's argument. Had he been cheated out of his intended role as the Founder King? Why does it matter? What does Noctis care, now that he has saved his kingdom? Then, it hits him: It matters because the true heart of a benevolent king is capable of mourning even the suffering of his greatest enemy.
Relationships: Ardyn Izunia & Noctis Lucis Caelum
Comments: 1
Kudos: 23





	The Crest of Blood

Too vividly does he recall the utter anguish of watching her slip away amidst a storm of sylleblossoms. His heart, that of a boy not yet prepared to stand as king, had fractured on end as she bid him farewell, leaving him to wake in a cold sweat with but the weight of his forefathers gripped tight between his fingers.

There, in Altissia, they'd been so close he could almost _feel_ the warmth of her hand clasped firmly in his. Betrothed or not, Noctis knows now – _far_ _too late_ – that he has always loved her, and always will.

Why then, the king wonders, does he feel that same sense of dread in felling the slayer of his beloved, of Eos' light, of all he holds dear? Why must he be _burdened_ now with damned conscience in the face of this man's impending death? Why, of all things, does he feel the _sting_ of sorrow beating him down alongside the rain which strikes the gentle curve of his arched back?

Noctis needn't glance skyward to know the answer to his own preposterous questions, for they had been revealed to him by word of his own foolish mouth within the halls preceding the throne room.

Those big, wide oil paintings – older certainly than the lifespans of a dozen kings and queens – displayed proudly in that gold-accented foyer at the heart of the Citadel, gazing down at all who passed with eyes eternal and unblinking. The vivid depictions of an ancient ruler, a man elected to ascend into the favor of the Astrals, receive their blessing and power to protect this their star: Somnus Lucis Caelum.

What if, Noctis thinks, breath held fast in his lungs, the history of Lucis _had_ been _wrong?_ What if – and the king cringes inwardly at this thought – the Founder himself had, indeed, usurped the throne from another born of his own blood?

From this the very man who lay gasping for breath on the pavement before Noctis now.

_He's_ _been living a long time. In a world he could share with no one._

A fist clenches tight in the soaked fabric of his black button-down. The echo is another edged stone in the sling, catching him hard in the gut, wrenching a disjointed expression from his calculated mask. _No emotion_ was what Noctis had promised himself. No tears, and no fury, for the time would come for him to let loose the dam before his end, too, came to claim him.

Inclining his head, rainwater streaks his face, mingling with the tears he's not had chance yet to shed. Tears for his father, bereft of his brilliant wife and asked to raise his son up for sacrifice. Tears for his beloved, kind and built of stronger stuff than any other, lost to him in the midst of duty. Tears for his friends, _their_ hardships, _their_ suffering, their search for his sake and for the return of light. And, yes, for _this_ bastard of a man – his own befouled blood corrupted so by the Starscourge – perhaps jilted by the gods and made to play the martyr in a tale over which he had no control.

For what he's done there can be no forgiveness, and yet Noctis pities him. Not for this his end, brought about by Ardyn's own eager hand and a lust for retribution, but for the centuries spent lost to solitude and darkness unfathomable.

Noctis rights himself but too late, the flickering gleam in his adversary's eyes mocks him for bearing still the tender heart of a child within a king's breast. Ardyn may perhaps know a thing or two about paying in naïveté, and had he the strength with which to move or speak, the king knows the Once-Chosen would not hesitate to share, albeit in the most cryptic and ineffective way imaginable.

It is strange that, in this moment, Ardyn is as human as the king has ever seen anyone: Mortally wounded, his broken body seeps blood and an oily blackness that sparks like starlight, eking into the carved crest of the Caelum line at the base of the Citadel's stone steps. Mixed with rainwater, it forms something akin to dark and runny paint. Noctis wonders if this could have all ended differently; if there is an end to this story somewhere that did _not_ require the loss of yet more life. His head bows in deference, though be it directed toward the gods, his loved ones, or to the limitless potential of a story gone unshared, Noctis does not know.

_"What will you do?"_

Head snapping to attention, Noctis' eyes open wide, visibly startled by the low hum of Ardyn's voice, choking back what can only be an amalgam of rain and blood and miasma working its way up into his throat. There's a part of the Chosen that _hates_ the way this man looks at him, wondering how much differently he might feel were those glittering amber eyes not so reminiscent of daemons and his greatest fears come to pass. He pushes the thought away, fingertips brushing locks of wet hair from his own blue eyes with a lengthy sigh.

_"Banish the daemons and bring peace?"_

By the Astrals, Noctis wishes this man would be silent, give him at least a chance to find the proverbial footing necessary to finish this. _No_. Ardyn must have the last word, but the expression now crossing his features is one the king has not yet seen him wear. That of genuine pain.

_"Erase me... from history once more?"_

"No," he murmurs, stunned a moment by the breaking of Ardyn's voice, the droplets collected in black hair giving way to more that take their place. Noctis sets his jaw, brow a firm crease above a gaze now unclouded by childish desire. "This time, _you can rest in peace."_

Taking hold of his adversary's hand with one of his own, the King of Kings inclines his head slightly, shoulders pulled back as the words of King Regis echo at a distance at the back of his mind.

_Walk tall, my son._

"Close your eyes... forevermore."

The other's attention shifts in an instant, from the bearded face of the Lucian king to the black ring set firm about his finger. It lingers, a note of envy and avarice detected for but a moment before he meets Noctis' gaze with his own, and holds it.

Everything that Noctis has ever known about this man, ever believed in or feared from him, crumbles into dust in an instant. That hatred and loathing Ardyn carried all these years, cast so deceptively betwixt a pair of golden shards of glittering sun, loses its luster, giving way to perhaps the one feeling Ardyn Lucis Caelum sought to find for two thousand years.

_Relief._

Noctis finds a bit of comfort in the thought, anyway, even if he's missed the mark.

_"I will await you... in the beyond."_

Malice seems to have left Ardyn with the deliverance of the killing blow, and the king tenses as the other man's jaw slackens, head falling to one side as the last bits of life at last leave him. Noctis swallows and squeezes his eyes shut, opening them just in time to watch this once-imposing figure dissipate in a scattering of red and white light and puffs of blackened soot.

The crest of their lineage, however, remains stained thick with blood and ichor, and Noctis cannot bring himself to pull his gaze from the sight.

Frankly, he thinks, it suits them.

At his core, he knows that the things he feels make little sense. He ought not pity nor mourn he who swept home and kingdom out from under him for something so petty as a centuries-old grudge. But he _does_ , and there is some comfort in knowing that Lunafreya and his father, at least, would understand why.

The Chosen King, Last in the Line of Lucis, takes to his feet, drawing a deep breath in through his nose.

"If there is a life after all of this," Noctis murmurs beneath the singing of the storm, _"may you find peace in it."_


End file.
